House of Fling…

No. No. I’m in what you might call a romantic long haul. Right, Mr. G, honey? Of course, that could make your skirt fly up, too?

Aside: Mr. G, honey is shaking his head. What is she talking about now? I can read his mind. That’s what happens when you’re in a romantic long haul.

No. Today, I had a little spring fling — a fling of the self-indulgent variety. I was hoping to put it off until May because I #amwriting, but I had a moment of clarity yesterday. A moment when I realized I was…I was…I was…looking a little like a hag-in-waiting.

It was a long, hard winter of shuffling around in socks and yoga pants — not the cute kind — socks and sweats, socks and mitts and boots and coats and hats and long underwears. We’re still doing it every other day.

So this morning, I hied myself off to the House of Fling and had my eyebrows waxed and tinted, some random threading done, ouch! — don’t ask — and a mani/pedi. It took three hours for me to no longer look like Mrs. Bigfoot.

And as I am hooked on OPI, my toes went with their signature color of I’m Not Really a Waitress red, but the fingers had a little fling of their own with the soft and sheer Bubble Bath. Have mercy!

That’s how the Northern Girl marks the coming of spring.

House of Fling, baby.

Elen (April 2011)

I’m about due another fling.

Who’s with me?

Men fling, too.

Elen

NOTE: THESE IMAGES ARE LICENSED, ROYALTY-FREE IMAGES FROM FOTOLIA.COM. NO POACHING, PLEASE.

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Disclaimer: I would rather recite the Times Tables to 12 backwards, do an hour of Hot Yoga in a ventless room with a gassy camel, or have the window seat next to a Blutbad flying on Air Force One than write a BIO.